The places they describe are not Home.

Those places were never Home to anyone.

Home is happy. Home is love. Home is comfort.

Home is hugs and food and warmth and laughs and rows and play.

Hundreds, thousands of women and children were kept there, but they were never Home.

Babies were born and taken away there.

Babies were let die there.

They were not Home.

Women and girls were broken, abused, neglected and permanently damaged there.

They were not Home.

Those walls have absorbed too many tears to be called Home.

Those floors have absorbed too much blood to be called Home.

I don’t know what they should be called, but Home is the last noun I would use.

Home is safety. Home is understanding. Home is compassion. Home is unconditional love and care.

It hurts me when I hear them use the word “Home”.

I have never had to endure even a sliver of what those women and girls and babies and children endured in those places, but it physically hurts me to hear and read about what happened to them.

They all deserved to be Home. To be loved. To be cared for. To be minded. To be held in their time of need. That is what Home should provide.

Those places were not Home.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. Such a moving piece Michelle. Really heartfelt.


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